


like rum on the fire

by spacefleeting



Series: i'd be home with you [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possible medical inaccuracies, Pre-Relationship, Sharing Clothes, Unresolved Romantic Tension, let's be honest with ourselves. that's what it is at this point.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-18 00:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacefleeting/pseuds/spacefleeting
Summary: "He thinks about the violence in Matt's hands and the anger in his words, and wonders how that all filters down to become gentle way he carefully cleans and dries the area around Bucky's wound."-Bucky gets hurt and tries to deal with it on his own. Matt isn't happy, and admissions are made.





	like rum on the fire

**Author's Note:**

> sequel to 'like the breaking of glass'! sorry in advance for any medical or new york geography inaccuracies lol. i tried to keep it vague to avoid that but alas i am an engineering student from the midwest. title is from "cherry wine" by hozier!

In hindsight, Bucky thinks, it's really his fault for getting complacent.

It'd been hard not to, though. It was the one good thing about being known as the Winter Soldier when he first came back to New York: sure, his reputation made pedestrians hurry away as soon as they recognized him, or shout insults from the other side of the street until he looked their way and they booked it, but it also scared criminals shitless. Bucky wasn't much into the whole vigilante thing -- Steve had purposely ignored the fact that the Avengers existed outside the law to give him a long lecture on the importance of not doing anything illegal until he gained more trust from the public -- but there was nothing illegal about stopping a mugging here and there. And it was so _easy_. All he had to do was flash the arm.

What Bucky hadn't counted on, though, was New York's endless ability to adapt. t happened gradually enough that he didn't even notice the change until one day a middle schooler stopped him on the street and asked her mom to take a picture of them together. The mom had smiled and thanked him, and it had been genuine -- no uneasiness, no barely-hidden fear, no rushing to get her daughter away. They felt safe with him.

That realization had dogged Bucky for the rest of the week. It opened the door, and now he couldn't _stop_ noticing the differences. People still didn't smile when they made eye contact on the street, because it was still New York, but they would nod, or simply glance over him like he was just another face in the crowd. The insults had stopped, and the shouts of "Hey, Solider!" that had replaced them were friendly in their cajoling. International media still labelled him up as an unpredictable threat whenever he made headlines with the Avengers, but it didn't matter what the rest of the world thought. New York had accepted him as one of their own.

And that's where Bucky had gotten too comfortable -- the idea that the demographic of the people becoming less afraid of him would include criminals didn't even cross his mind until just now, when one of them is slicing his side open.

Bucky hisses as the knife tears through his shirt. He'd been caught off guard by the kid's wild flail (because that's what he is, really, a kid -- he can't be any older than twenty or twenty one, and given the name brand sportswear he's in, Bucky's more than willing to bet he's doing this on a dare gone too far from his college friends), but he'd still managed jerk back enough that the knife doesn't so much pierce his side as it does slide across it. It's a meat knife, sharp and clean as if it'd just been pulled out of a kitchen drawer, and it moves easily across his ribs without snagging.

' _Small blessings_ ,' Bucky thinks ruefully.

"Oh shit, oh my god, no no no."

The kid's face is rapidly losing color. His eyes are fixed on the patch of blood starting to seep through Bucky's shirt, as if the sight of blood scares him more than the goddamn Winter Solider having a death grip on his arm. The knife clatters as it hits the ground. The kid starts to shake, and Bucky wonders if he's going to faint.

He takes a quick look around the alley. The girl the kid had been trying to rob is gone -- whether to get help or to just get the hell away, Bucky doesn't know, and it doesn't matter. All he needed to know is that she's safe and gone.

He turns back to the kid, who's still on his feet, but barely. He'd reflexively tightened his grip on the kid's wrist when the knife had gone through his shirt, and he can feel the bones grinding together. He doesn't let go.

Bucky gives him his darkest look and watches him turn four shades paler.

"Go," is all he says. He lets go, and the kid scrambles away as fast as he can.

It's not until Bucky's thrown the knife into a nearby dumpster -- it's not ideal, he'll admit, especially given how often Clint and Matt both end up in dumpsters, but it's better than leaving it out for any idiot to find -- that the pain in his side really hits him. He stops to take stock of the wound. It's not a scratch, but it's certainly not deep either. The bloodstain on his shirt is big enough that Bucky knows he'll need stitches, but not so big that he's worried about bleeding out. It hurts enough that he can't forget it's there, but not enough to keep him from moving.

All in all, he's had worse.

Bucky tilts his head back and lets out a long, slow sigh. Even in this alley in Hell's Kitchen, the early autumn sun is pleasant on his skin. It's probably the last real warm weekend they'll have, and Bucky had planned to surprise Matt at his apartment once he got back from Mass and take him to a farmer's market. Maybe he'd even cook him an early dinner after -- Matt was perfectly capable of cooking for himself but never did, and he always got shy and sweet whenever Bucky cooked for him, so really, it'd be a win-win.

Bucky sighs again. He'd had _plans_ , goddammit.

Then again, he thinks, Matt's apartment is only a block away, and he has a perfect well-stocked first aid kit under his bathroom sink. With any luck, Bucky will be able to convince him to skip the usual mother-henning routine he goes through whenever Bucky gets hurt and they'll still be able to get to the farmer's market before it closes.

Bucky unties the black hoodie he'd thrown around his waist that morning and pulls it on, zipping it up to cover his bloodstained t-shirt. There's no subtle way to apply pressure to a knife wound on your ribs as you walk, but Bucky does it anyway. If anyone on the street notices anything weird about the way he's holding himself, well, no one looks twice. It's New York, after all.

He makes it all the way to Matt's front door, and he means to knock. He really does. But--

But there are voices coming from inside. Multiple. Bucky hears laughter, Matt's and someone else's. His fist freezes in midair before it even touches the wood.

Matt gets so little normalcy in his day to day life. Bucky's in pain, and it's a long way back to Brooklyn, but even if he could put the risk of exposing Matt's secret identity aside, he couldn't bring himself to barge in there and ruin this moment for him.

Bucky doesn't swear out loud, because he doesn't want to alert Matt that he's there, but it's a close thing. And then he turns around, walks back outside, and hails a cab home.

* * *

There's traffic, because of course there is, and the usually thirty minute car ride is edging past an hour by the time Bucky gets back home. He hauls himself out of the cab and then has to pause on the sidewalk until the world stops spinning. He'd managed to keep a fair amount of pressure on the wound the entire ride without attracting too much attention from the driver -- and even managed to not bleed on the seats -- but apparently, it hadn't been enough.

Still, though. Bucky's had worse.

He's never been so annoyed that his building doesn't have an elevator before, but he makes it the stairs with minimal issue. He fumbles in his back pocket for his keys.

And then his apartment door is slamming open from the inside, and Bucky doesn't even have time to react before a furious-looking Matt Murdock is hauling him inside.

"What the fuck," is all he can say.

"How are you this stupid?" Matt is demanding as he slams and locks the door behind them. "Seriously, did you get your skull knocked in too?"

" _What?_ "

Matt spins back around to face him. His brow is heavy and dark, and his mouth is set like he's trying to decide not whether he should throw a punch, but where it should land.

"Isn't Stark Tower in Manhattan?" he asks, then charges on before Bucky can even think about answering. "You could have gone there. Or, you know, actually _come inside my apartment_ since you got two feet from the door. But _no_ , you had to take a fucking cab back to Brooklyn Heights with a knife wound, because you're an _idiot_."

"I..." Bucky is scrambling as Matt starts herding him towards his dining table, which is covered in what looks like a spread-out garbage bag and the entire contents of Bucky's first aid kit. None of this makes sense. "How...what...how did you even beat me here?"

"It took you over an hour to get here. Of course I beat you." Given the sheen of sweat still glistening on Matt's face, Bucky's pretty sure that's code for _'I did a lot of parkour, took a cab over the bridge, and did more parkour._ ' He wants to joke about it, but the thunderous look on Matt's face tells him he shouldn't.

Matt shoves Bucky into a chair at the table then drags another one around to sit next to him.. "Shirt off before I cut it off."

Bucky scowls at his tone. He's not evens sure why Matt's so angry, but he can't stop his own blood rising, too. "Jesus Christ, alright."

He unzips the hoodie and drops it unceremoniously on the part of the table not covered by medical supplies -- no sense in getting blood on the floor if the table's already protected, he thinks -- and starts to take off his t-shirt before he's stopped by Matt hissing, "Can you be careful."

"I _am_ ," Bucky snaps back, then whips his t-shirt off the rest of the way in an extremely not-careful manner.

Matt snatches up the bottle of disinfectant and several gauze pads, probably to keep himself from hitting Bucky. "I can hear you ripping the flesh more. Could you have at least have _some_ sense of self-preservation?"

Bucky hisses at the sting of the disinfectant, then says "Oh, that's real funny coming from you."

"At least I never went to someone for help and then decided taking a cab home was a better idea."

"Jesus, I heard people inside, alright?" Bucky watches Matt pick up an already-threaded suture needle. He feels a bit of pride that he'd managed to staunch the bleeding enough that Matt can go straight to stitches. "Sorry I didn't feel like making you explain why the Winter Soldier is coming to a blind lawyer for first aid."

"It was just Foggy and Karen. They know about me."

"Okay, and I was supposed to know that how?" He doesn't even wince as the first stitch goes in. "Not everyone has your super-hearing."

Matt's scowl deepens as he works. "You could have _knocked_ , at the very least." His tone makes it sound like Bucky had kicked a dog instead.

"Christ, Matt, what the hell are you so angry for?"

Matt whips his head back up to face Bucky. He looks like he's two seconds away from bearing his teeth. "What are you so _stupid_ for, Barnes? Did you really think I wouldn't notice? You were bleeding all over the place, of course I could smell it. Did you think I wouldn't know it was you? Did you think I wouldn't _worry?_ "

There's...a lot of process there, but Bucky's too on-edge to deal with any of it. He opens his mouth to snap back, but then he does a double take at Matt's face and stops in his tracks. For a moment he just stares, mouth halfway open, before blurting out, "You're not wearing your glasses."

Matt snorts derisively. "Real astute observation there, Sergeant."

"No, I mean..." Bucky takes a quick look around, ignoring Matt's annoyed hiss as he twists in his seat and pulls at his fresh stitches. He doesn't see the trademark red lenses anywhere. "You came in like that?"

"Again, your powers of observation astound me. Truly. I've never met anyone who used their sight quite like you before. It takes a special person to be able to miss what's literally right in front of their face."

"What the hell is your problem?" Bucky snaps, and Matt's lips press together into a thin, angry line. "Jesus Christ, all I'm saying is, you never do that."

Matt huffs out a breath, his mouth twisting into something that could have been a half smile if it wasn't so mean. He runs his tongue over his teeth, and Bucky can almost see him physically swallowing whatever sarcastic response he'd been about to spit out before he says, shortly, "Well. I was in a bit of a rush to get over here. Forgot to grab them."

Bucky doesn’t respond, mulling it over. Matt's taken off his glasses several times in his presence, but he never leaves his apartment without them. He's never said it outright, but Bucky's gathered from Matt's actions and vague allusions that he doesn't wear them out of any physical necessity. It's an intimacy thing -- he likes having a barrier between himself and the outside world. The idea of him forgetting something as important as that, something that's been a part of him for so many years in his rush to get to Bucky has a weight to it. A significance. It's heavy enough that he wants to set it down, but he can't. He's been entrusted with it, and there's nowhere else to put it.

He watches Matt's skilled, sure hands tie off the last few stitches and pick up a damp washcloth to wipe the blood off the surrounding skin. His knuckles are broken and bruised. Some of them are scabbed over where they've chafed against the insides of his gloves. The nails on his left hand are chipped and flaking at the tips, like he'd been clawing at bricks. Bucky doesn't wonder if he had -- he wonders where, and when, and why.

He thinks about the brutality Matt's hands see during his nights as Daredevil, and the brutality they see during his days as a lawyer, the injustice and pain they absorb as they skim over printed depositions and his braille reader. He thinks about the violence in Matt's hands and the anger in his words, and wonders how that all filters down to become gentle way he carefully cleans and dries the area around Bucky's wound.

Bucky knows he couldn't do that. He doesn't have it in him. And he knows that for all his blistering words right now, Matt is a better man than him.

Matt tapes a gauze pad in place over the stitches, running his fingers around the edges to make sure it's secure. "Feel okay?" he asks. His voice isn't as sharp as before, but it's not warm either. It just...is.

Bucky nods. "Yeah."

Matt stands, and there's a split second where Bucky thinks he's going to leave, but then he's gathering the bloody rags and Bucky's discarded shirts in his arms. "I'll put these in the wash and get you a new shirt." He points at the bandage. "Open that while I'm gone and I'll make sure that's not the only place you're bleeding from."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, _Mom_."

There's a long moment where Matt just stands there, head tilted and brow furrowed, listening for god knows what. Bucky stares right back. The silence stretches thin between them, but eventually Matt nods like he's satisfied with whatever he heard and wanders off to the coat closet in the entryway that houses Bucky's washer and dryer.

Bucky carefully shuffles his way over to the couch, then flops down on it with zero semblance of grace, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. He's still a little dizzy from the blood loss and drained from arguing, and this is absolutely not how he expected this day to go. He closes his eyes, letting the sounds of Matt puttering around with the laundry wash over him. It's almost sickeningly domestic. Bucky wonders ruefully if they'll ever get a moment like this that isn't preceded in some way by blood.

Matt shuffles back into the living room, then pauses halfway to the bedroom. Bucky doesn't need to open his eyes to tell that Matt's trying to decide whether or not to say something. Bucky doesn’t prompt him, not wanting to rush along whatever argument he’s conjuring up. He just waits.

Finally, Matt says, "You changed your laundry detergent."

That wasn't even in the wheelhouse of what Bucky might have expected him to say, and against his will he huffs out something that's halfway to a laugh. "Uh, yeah. Found a new one at Costco."

There's another pause. The creaking of the floorboards says Matt shifts his weight to his other foot, and Bucky wonders if laundry detergent is really going to be the next thing they fight over.

"Is that a problem," he eventually sighs when Matt still doesn't move. It's not a question. It's not even a statement, really. It's just tired.

"No," Matt says, sounding genuinely surprised. For the first time today, there's no bite in his words, and that's enough to make Bucky open his eyes to squint at him. He looks...embarrassed, almost, ducking his head and fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater as if he can feel the weight of Bucky's gaze on him. "No, that's not what I...I just...I like this one. It's less artificial. Suits you better."

Bucky blinks. All he can say is, "Uh. Okay. Thanks."

Matt nods again jerkily, his expression still flustered and complicated, and he hurries off to the bedroom, leaving Bucky alone with the fact that Matt apparently thinks about how he smells enough to have opinions on his laundry detergent.

It really should be weird, or uncomfortable, but it's not. It just goes on the ever-growing list of unfortunate things Bucky finds attractive about Matt Murdock.

Bucky hears the sink run in the bathroom -- Matt washing the blood off his hands and disinfecting the suture needle, most likely -- followed by several minutes of silence. He knows Matt knows where all his clothes are, because he's stolen them often enough after getting patched up that it's become a habit, so he knows it definitely shouldn't be taking him this long. He wonders if he's hiding after his admission, or if he's just amping himself back up to scold Bucky again. He hopes it's the former. He has the energy to argue, if he really needs to, but he doesn't _want_ to. Fights with Matt are thankfully rare, but they always leave the inside of Bucky's ribs feel sticky and clogged.

He's not sure when he closed his eyes again, but when he eventually feels the couch dip, Bucky opens them to find Matt sitting at the other end, clutching a bundle of clothes. It makes his heart twist, and not in the usual way he's come to associate with Matt. Bucky's not sure he can remember the last time they haven't just casually inserted themselves into the other's personal space like they belong there. The few feet between them now feel like miles.

But it's Matt's choice, and as much as it hurts, Bucky's not going to try to bridge the gap without an invitation, so instead he just holds his hand out for the clothes with a soft, "Thanks."

Matt doesn't move to hand them over. He doesn't move at all. Bucky's not even sure if he heard him. He just sits there, almost hugging the clothes to his chest, brow dark and furrowed as he stares blankly down at the couch between them.

Bucky blinks and lets his hand drop. "Uh, Matt?"

Matt opens his mouth, lips twitching around the air like he's trying to carve words from it, but there's still nothing.

"Can I...can I please have my shirt?"

"You're always taking care of me," Matt says, and Bucky's brain short circuits.

"Um," is his extremely eloquent response.

Matt's fingers tighten on the shirt and he keeps his head ducked as he continues. "You are. You make sure I eat stuff that's not just protein bars or whatever clients bring into the office. You sew my face back together so I can go into court in the morning. You try to make me rest when I need to even if I want to go out. You..." Matt sounds like the words are ripping themselves from his throat against his will, but there's a grim determination behind them as well. "I don't do half as much for you. It's not fair."

"That's..." Bucky is overwhelmed. Matt talking about anything to do with his own emotions to anyone other than his priest is already rare enough. For him to do so willingly, when he's not recovering from a near-death experience or trying to earn back someone's trust -- when he can't twist the vulnerability into some kind of self-punishment -- has to be a sign that the world is ending.

Except that it's not. There's no screaming from the streets. No fire raining down from he sky. Matt Murdock is willingly opening up about something that's bothering him, but Bucky's apartment building keeps standing and the Earth keeps turning. Stranger things must have happened, but right now, Bucky can't think of a single one.

"Matt," he tries again. "That's not how this works. It's not...it's not about _fair_ . I'm happy to do those things. I do them _because_ I'm happy to."

"I know," Matt says softly. "I know you do. But you also do them because I let you. Because I trust you to. You know?"

Bucky has no idea where he's going with this, but he nods anyway.

Matt makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Then you know. You asked me earlier what my problem is. _That's_ my problem."

"I...Matt, I'm sorry, I really don't know where you're going with this." Bucky feels like he's drowning. Or falling. He hopes Matt will catch him, but he's really not sure if he will. "Your problem is that you trust me?" he asks, and he hates how small his voice comes out.

" _No_ ," Matt all but growls, and Bucky nearly reels back from the intensity of his voice. "That could never be a problem. _Never_. My problem is that I want to do all those things for you, too, but you don't trust me to."

There's a lot to process. Matt's ferocity. His immediate denial that their relationship is a burden. The way that combination of makes something warm and dark and pleasant curl in the pit of Bucky's stomach. And the way that’s drowned out by the sharp, immediate wave of cold that comes when Matt says that Bucky doesn't trust him.

After all he's shown Matt -- after he let him hold him through a panic attack, after he sat on his floor and held his hand and told him about HYDRA and Victoria -- for Matt to go ahead and say that's not enough...it makes Bucky want to hit him. Or throw up. Or both.

"That's not true. I do trust you," Bucky says, trying to put as much force behind the words as he can get out past the anxiety clawing at his throat. He feels sick. "I know you're listening to my heart. You know I'm not lying."

"Bucky..." Matt's expression is soft and sad as he angles his face away from the couch, up towards Bucky's He finally releases his death grip on Bucky's clothes, letting them and his hands fall into a crumpled pile on his lap. "I do. I know you trust me. You've shared...a lot with me. More than I deserve. I'm not trying to discredit that at all."

His earnestness isn't enough to fully soothe Bucky, but it's enough to drive away just enough of his anxiety for the frustration to set back in.

"You're not making any _sense_ ," he snaps. "You said I don't trust you, but now you're saying you know I do? _Pick one_ , Matt. I don't know what you're saying. I don't know what you _mean_."

Bucky wishes he was a better man, but he's not, and he holds onto the vindictive pleasure that runs through him when Matt looks visibly distressed. It's hot and sharp and it gives him something to focus on other than the way his heart is aching.

"That's not what I said," Matt says, voice steady despite the way his face is starting to crumple in, and Bucky is struck again by how much his glasses must hide every day. "I said you don't trust me to take care of you. That's different."

"I don't _get it_ ," Bucky says, for what feels like the eight-hundredth time that night. "I don't get where you're drawing that line. Or _why_ you're drawing it. I thought that was kind of the whole reason we even became friends in the first place. To take care of each other."

Matt sighs. "I thought so too, but. Bucky," he says, his voice going terribly soft on his name, "you got in a taxi with a knife wound instead of letting me patch you up."

"I...Jesus, that wasn't a trust thing. I told you, I heard people inside and I--"

Matt gently interrupts him. "How many times have I crashed your movie nights with your friends to bleed out at that same table?"

They both know it's too many to count, but -- "That's not fair," Bucky counters. "You've got your hearing. You always know who's inside."

Matt shakes his head. "Not always. It's not like I sit around listening to Avengers press cons and memorizing everyone's voice, Bucky. Every time there's someone here I haven't met before, I have no idea who it is."

"You do realize that's actually normal, right? That's how most people live their lives," Bucky drawls flatly. He gets a patented Murdock Eye Roll for his efforts.

"You know what I mean," Matt says. "I'm still taking a risk -- better calculated that you could, okay, sure, but it's still a risk. But I take it, because I know you'd rather I do that than crawl home bleeding. I trust that if there is someone inside who shouldn't see me there, you'll figure something out."

Bucky opens his mouth -- he doesn't really have a counterargument in mind, but he'll make one up -- but Matt holds up a hand. "Let me finish," he says in his lawyer voice. And _God_ , does Bucky hate the lawyer voice, but Matt still has his hand up and is looking at him expectantly, so he begrudging nods.

Matt lowers his hand. "Thank you. I don't have much left to say. Just that, I want you to know it's not a burden. Taking care of you, that is. If there's someone in my apartment when you need stitching up then we'll deal with it. Even if I'm in court, I don't care, you come into that courtroom and I'll find a first aid kit and we'll _deal with it_."

Part of Bucky desperately wants to make some kind of snide comment about how he doesn't think Foggy would appreciate that at all, but he said he would be quiet, so he doesn't. And besides, it's a relatively small part anyway, because most of him is stuck on how Matt had just implied he would out his secret identity for Bucky.

He knows -- _hopes_ \-- it's hyperbole, but he can't get past the fact that that's what that would mean, Bucky bursting into a courtroom for Matt's help. Plenty of grainy pictures of the Winter Soldier and Daredevil teaming up have made their way onto the front pages, and even more onto the internet. If Bucky caused a scene like that, it wouldn't take long for someone to put two and two together.

And Matt had told him to do it, if he needed to.

' _It's an exaggeration_ ,' Bucky tells himself. ' _He's just trying to make a point_.' It's only barely convincing enough to keep him sane.

Matt, blessedly, is oblivious to Bucky's impending meltdown, and keeps talking with the same determined iron in his words that has helped win even the most impossible of cases. "I don't expect you to just flip and switch and suddenly be comfortable enough to do that. And I know I don't have any right to ask you to even try. I know it's selfish. But I..." and here Matt swallows, his confidence visibly wavering as a tortured look flashes across his face. It's gone as soon as it came, and what replaces it are the words "I _want_ that. I want you to trust me with that."

_Want._

Bucky's not stupid. He knows Matt wants things, because he's human, but he also knows that if Matt _could_ not want anything, he would, because he's Catholic. He's driven by guilt and need, and more often than not he pushes his desires down until they become one of those two things before he acts on them. He doesn't talk about the things he wants, and he definitely doesn't ask for them. Bucky thinks back over the year -- and Jesus, has it really been so long already? -- that they've known each other. He can't think of a single time Matt has asked Bucky for something that he doesn't absolutely need.

And yet.

' _I want you to trust me with that_.'

Forget the confusion, forget the anger. There are a million things Bucky wants to say, but all that comes out is, "Oh, Matty."

And then Matt is chewing on his bottom lip and ducking his head again. "You have to stop calling me that," he says. "You're going to kill me."

"You don't like it?"

Matt hunches even further in on himself as he mutters, "It's the opposite," and Bucky takes pity on him and doesn't push it any further. Matt's already made enough admissions for one day. Any more might actually kill him.

Bucky reaches his hand out, careful not to pull too much on his wound. Matt takes it without hesitation, and for the first time that day Bucky feels like there's solid ground under his feet again.

"I'll try," he says. "I can't promise much beyond that. But what you said, you..." Here Bucky has to pause, breathe in, steady himself before he can even say the words. "You taking care of me. I want that too. So. I'll try."

It doesn't earn him a thousand-watt smile, but the cautiously hopeful one he gets is still enough to set the butterflies off. "That's more than enough."

Matt carefully lets go of his hand as he scoots a little closer on the couch before finally pressing the clothes into Bucky's lap. He starts to stand, and there's a half-moment of panic, and Bucky's hand flashes back out to grab his arm.

Matt freezes. "Buck?"

"Don't leave?" he asks, voice strained.

"I'm not," Matt reassures him. He gestures at the first aid supplies still spread out on the table. "Just going to clean this up."

Bucky nods, embarrassed, and quickly releases his grip. "Right. Okay. Cool. Sweet."

Matt chuckles, then points at the clothes. "Put those one. I can hear you getting goosebumps."

"No you fucking _cannot_ ," Bucky snaps, but there's no real heat behind it, and Matt just laughs as he heads over to the table and starts packing the first aid kit away. He always does it so much more neatly than Bucky, sorting everything into categories -- bandages, gauzes, disinfectants -- before placing them in organized rows and sections. It's one of the rare reminders that Matt is, in fact, actually blind, and that casual messiness is difficult for him to navigate. Bucky silently promises to start making an effort to keep the kit more organized.

"Hey," Matt says as he carries the first aid kit back to its place on the shelf by the fire escape window, "I know cleaning up medical supplies is my best look, but you can stare after you put your shirt on."

It's not like he was being particularly stealthy about it, but Bucky still blushes at having been caught. He does appreciate the attempt to lighten the mood, though, so he jokes right back, "Actually, personally I think the horns are your best look."

Matt sniffs primly as he walks back. "You only think that because my ass looks good in the suit."

"How do you know what your ass looks good in?" Bucky laughs, but he doesn't contradict him. His ass _does_ look very good in the suit.

"I have my sources," Matt says vaguely, and Bucky laughs again, full-bellied, until the pain in his side cuts him off. Matt's head snaps up from where he's wrapping up the trash bag he'd covered the table with, brows furrowed.

"I'm okay," Bucky tells him, barely resisting the urge to reach over and smooth his brow out.

Matt nods slowly. "Shirt," is all he says, before heading off to the trash can by the kitchen.

Bucky rolls his eyes at Matt's back, but he _is_ cold, so he turns his attention to the bundle that's sitting in his lap. He tugs apart t-shirt apart from the hoodie and carefully maneuvers himself into it. It's not until he picks the hoodie up that he pauses.

It's Matt's favorite hoodie. The one he steals every time he spends the night at Bucky's place, because the outside is his favorite kind of jersey material and the inside is lined with a soft fleece that somehow never pills in the wash. The one he won't take home no matter how many times Bucky offers to give it to him, always with enough accompanying blushing that Bucky has been sure for months that there's something else to his refusal other than his complex about receiving gifts.

He takes another look at the t-shirt and, yeah, that's Matt's favorite one too. It's worn thin and soft and smooth and it always dangles off his frame, even though Bucky would normally swear Matt's not that much smaller than him.

There's been a few times where Matt has a bad night as Daredevil -- not a night where he got hurt, but a night where he wasn't fast enough to save someone else. He's slowly getting a little better, Bucky thinks, about not blaming himself for every tragedy that happens in the city, but sometimes it still hits him impossibly hard. Bucky always knows it's one of those nights when Matt crawls through his window but doesn't say anything, just goes straight for this hoodie and this t-shirt before silently curling up in the corner of Bucky's couch.

There's no way to deny that Matt picked these out specifically to comfort him. Something in Bucky's throat tightens, and suddenly he finds himself blinking back tears.

He hears the kitchen sink turn off, and Matt's concerned voice calls out, "Bucky?"

Of course he could taste the salt on the air. "Uh, yeah," Bucky says, voice thick, tugging the hoodie on. "Yeah, I'm good. Promise." And then he remembers his other promise, that he'll try, and adds, "Just caught me off guard. Your clothing choices, that is."

Matt sticks his head around the kitchen doorframe, chewing his bottom lip. "Are they...okay?"

"They're perfect," Bucky reassures him, and this time he does get Matt's thousand-watt smile before he disappears again. Bucky pulls on the hoodie and feels warm, inside and out.

There's a few confusing minutes where all Bucky can hear is Matt opening and closing the fridge and cupboards, and finally he calls out, "What are you _doing_?"

Matt reappears in the doorway, arms crossed. He almost looks like he's _sulking_. "You lost a fair amount of blood, Bucky. You need to _eat._ I was going to cook, but you don't have any food." His voice gets pointed and accusing. "You're worse than me."

"Wow," Bucky says. "Okay, wow, _first_ of all, I was going to drag you grocery shopping for both of us today, but clearly that didn’t happen. Second of all, that is _entirely_ false. I could have a box of saltines in my pantry and nothing else and still be better off than you."

“Fuck you, Barnes, I have saltines.”

“You have _a_ saltine. Singular.”

Matt pouts, and really, it’s the cutest thing Bucky’s ever seen. “Whatever. You still need to eat. I’ll run to the bodega, is there anything specific you want?”

‘ _I want you to not go anywhere_ ,’ is what Bucky thinks but can’t say, even though he wants to, so badly. So he filters it into, “Let's order in instead. Top drawer under the counter closest to the door, there should be a bunch of take out menus."

Matt raises an eyebrow. "I don't suppose any of them are in braille?" he asks dryly.

Bucky rolls his eyes. "I meant bring them _here,_ dumbass. I'll read them to you."

At that, Matt's whole being lights up, and in an instant he's hovering at Bucky's side, clutching the stack of menus to his chest. Bucky's heart swells with almost overwhelming fondness in the face of his enthusiasm, and he holds his arm on his uninjured side out with a soft, "C'mere."

That one word is all it takes for Matt to curl up against him, knees to his chest as he tucks himself into Bucky's side. Bucky settles his arm around Matt's shoulders as he starts to read and feels something in his chest settle, too. He's sure tonight's not the last time they'll be at each other's throats -- for all their trying, he knows they're both too stubborn to never mess up again. But as long as they can always end up back here, with Matt's warmth pressed against his side and their breathing falling into sync, then, well. Bucky's sure that they'll be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> definitely didn't set out to write 6k that boils down to "i'll take care of you" "it's rotten work" "not to me. not if it's you" but here we are lads.
> 
> there will be one more fic in this series! it might take a while, because i can already tell from my outline that it's going to be even more of a monster than part 2 and i want to get most if not all of it written before i post it, but it'll come eventually.
> 
> thank you for reading! as always, kudos and comments are deeply appreciated <3 i love hearing from you guys!


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